Page 73 of Love Unraveled
“I would have found a way to break anything you’d put in place. I am a duke, Countess.”
The derision had returned to his voice. He thought himself impervious to rules. “But not aroyalduke. Your position has limitations, no?”
“You dare to goad me?” he asked, the color once again rising in his face.
“And you dare to enter my home and assault my husband!”
“Husband? That gutter rat who scurried from Paris, too afraid to take a stand and fight for his country?”
“You know nothing of him.” Sophia bit her bottom lip to stop her rising anger from making her say more. It would do no good to antagonize him further.
“Enough,” he said, slamming his glass on the table and standing. “I’d force you into marriage, but I don’t want a Frenchman’s whore.” He spat out the words, spittle glistening in the corner of his lips. “Hand over the information you have gathered on me. And show me your safe.”
Sophia stood and dared a glance at Gaston. He shook his head slightly. He was correct, of course. The duke’s behavior was erratic and unpredictable. Extreme even for him. To give the man what he wanted would not end well for any of them.
“As I have told you, Thornwood has tied up much of my money. But…” She looked at the desk, pursing her lips as though trying to make a decision. She looked at Gaston and Harris, and she determined a course of action. It was a long shot but worth a try. “I have buried a strong box.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said, quickly moving closer and gripping her arm. “Why would you do that?”
Sophia yanked from his grasp, swiping at where he’d held her. She was in a perfect position to draw her knee up hard, but she could see Lord Drake out of the corner of her eye. She could not possibly overcome them both.
“It is for emergencies. I have never trusted the English.” She casually shrugged a shoulder, but she could tell he was still wary. “It is true.” She sighed heavily. “The map is in the second drawer.”
The duke walked to the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out the etching she’d done of Gaston’s map. He set it on the desktop and studied it. “Why is it penciled over?”
“It is how I made a copy. One here, one on my estate. It was too much work to draw two. I am lazy, no?”
“It makes no sense. Where is this? There are mountains.”
“Château Nouveau. My estate. Those are hills. I don’t draw well,” she said, but he still looked unconvinced. She’d hoped he’d take the bait and leave. She would figure out how to deal with him after she’d taken care of the men. Gaston was watching her from beneath his lashes. Harris remained still. If not for the slight rise and fall of his chest, she would worry they had killed him.
“I will give you direction for the keys to the safe at Château Nouveau. The painting of the hunt in my library, the one you so admired because of the dappled gray beneath the rider,—it is behind it. There you will find some cash as well as the investigation reports on you. And the treasures in the buried box will tide you over until you secure another widow. Go. It’s all yours.”
He looked at the map and back at her.
“It is my apology for disappointing you,” she added, trying to mollify him into acceptance.
“I would not get past your guard dog.”
“Raimondo? He is on his way to Newmarket and not expecting me until tomorrow.” Sophia could tell he was contemplating it. She had never taken him for a stupid man. He must truly be desperate.
“If you are lying to me…” He didn’t finish his threat. He grabbed the map and folded it. “You’re coming with me. You will show me where.” He gripped her upper arm so tightly she could not break away.
“Non, Sophie. Don’t leave with him,” Gaston whispered hoarsely in French.
Sophia looked over her shoulder to where Gaston struggled against his binds. How could she leave him? How could she not?
The duke paused in front of Lord Drake. “Take care of them.”
“No!” Sophia managed to yank free. “You harm them and I will not help you.”
The duke hesitated.
“I swear to God you will not find so much as a penny if you hurt them.” Sophia glared at the duke. It would end here if it must. She would rather die with Gaston than live without him again.
“Hold them. I’ll send word.” The duke yanked her along the hall and on through her morning room before pulling her out the rear door and down the few steps to her garden, damaging newly budding lilies as he dragged her to his coach waiting discreetly in the mews. His coachman did not look at her as the duke tugged open the door. She put a foot on the step, debating the wisdom of going with him, but he roughly pushed her in. She clambered for a grip and pulled herself onto the bench while he shouted directions to his coachman, then joined her.
“You make a scene anywhere along the way, and I will send word to finish your Frenchman.”
